March 1710:30 p.m.

The bed of this Tijuana hotel room is too soft.
Cloying. I sink at its edge. A square night stand, drink-
ringed, is my desk. I lean over it. I slump really onto my
bent left arm over it. The hand of my left arm props up my
face. The hand of my right arm scribbles these words. To
enter the bathroom you have to tiptoe around this drink-
ringed nightstand. The bathroom has no door. The door to
the hotel room itself sags, too heavy for its frame. Only a
rusty chain secures that door. And of dark wood paneling
are the walls. And there is no window. And a bare light bulb
swings. And there is no window. And I am reminded of that
San Luís Potosí hotel of eight years ago, of that seediest
room I ever rented.

The floor of this Tijuana hotel room throbs with a bass
rhythm booming from some nearby cantina. The cantina is
placed beneath and behind the hotel, I think. Just outside
this room a Ranchero band oompahs loudly into the hotel's
awkwardly shaped courtyard. Earlier I paused on the second
floor landing and watched the band for a few seconds. A
birthday party, it seems. The man at the desk warned me of
the Ranchero band. He promised the band would not play all
night. I guess he did not feel obliged to warn me of the
cantina. I'm sure that music will play all night. I may
sleep anyway. I'm exhausted. I didn't even try to get to
sleep last night until well into the wee hours. A high wind
was rushing across Hermosillo and some piece of metal on the
hotel's rooftop was not firmly secured. About 2 a.m. I gave
up waiting for its random banging to stop. I turned out the
light and tried to sleep anyway. About 3:30 a.m. I gave up
trying to sleep anyway. The banging sounded like a man with
a baseball bat ravaging a tin storage shed. I sat up in bed.
I turned on the light. I climbed out of bed. I paced my
room. At length, even as weary as I felt, I sat down to
scribble. I drafted that scene for The Sandra Texts. I
drafted it even as the baseball bat psychotically ravaged the
tin. But I drafted it. Afterward I slumped over the pages
of looseleaf. I dozed there maybe thirty minutes. And no
rest on the bus today either. For the landscape between
Hermosillo and Tijuana is stunning. Awestruck, I sat,
roused. So desolate a stretch of earth! And so beautiful in
its desolation! Never such barrenness, have I beheld. A
moonscape, it recalls. Anyway, here again I slump over these
sheets of looseleaf. Even through the cantina's revels I
will probably sleep tonight. I will sleep for sheer
exhaustion tonight. Maybe between the sets of the cantina
band I will sleep tonight. Or maybe through them.

I have the energy to scribble these words only because
of Tijuana itself. I have visited Tijuana many times before.
But never have I visited Tijuana after dark. Walking Avenida
Revolución just now was quite novel. The dance clubs and the
booze bars lining it bathe Revolución in pulsing rhythms and
beer breath and young women provocatively dressed and barkers
and neon light. I was signally out of place shouldering my
green bag along this gauntlet--haggard, unkempt. One of the
barkers coached me toward his club, nevertheless. "This way,
amigo," he called in a wheedling accented English. And, "Me
burlas?" I answered in my equally accented Spanish. The
riposte, spoken by a gringo, at that time of night, on a
Thursday, was so unexpected that the unctuous barker stood
speechless, wide-eyed. He had no well-rehearsed reply for
the Mexican equivalent of "You're kidding me, right?" I
strode on. And strode on. Finally I arrived at my hotel.
Or, I didn't. For my hotel was not there. It was reported
to be at the corner of Calle Primero and Revolución. I
looked again. Still it was not there. And none of the
buildings about were numbered. And no sign about said hotel.
I began to shuffle down Calle Primero. In just steps I was
awash in the clangor of Mexican bars, in the hissing of
hookers angling for my eye. I kept shuffling. A short woman
scuttered up alongside. Well-coifed, was she. She told me I
was in a very dangerous area. She told me I should leave
immediately. I had already recognized the byway as seamy. I
didn't care. Invulnerable, I felt. Exhaustion was the
source of this invulnerability. I was too tired to be afraid.
And elation, too. So near the end of this journey! I thanked
the woman, but, "I can't find my hotel," I told her. "Hotel
Palácios, it is named. Do you know where it is?" She shook
her head. "It is not this direction, joven," she told me.
"There is a small hotel back near where the Mariachis stand.
Maybe that is it." I thanked the woman again. "Turn around
and go the other direction, joven," she ordered. And I
stopped walking. And she continued on. And I thanked the
well-coifed woman yet again. But she did not hear me this
time. I turned to retrace my steps.

The mariachis group themselves on a circular concrete
island near the corner of Calle Primero and Revolución. They
loiter there waiting to be hired. In that vicinity my hotel
should be. The guide book said so. The well-coifed woman
said so. But... Still I could not locate it. Still it was
not there. Across a narrow lane from the concrete island a
long dark corridor led away from the street. Along that
corridor a row of video games stood. I saw a mariachi there,
his great blond sombrero atop one of the video games. He beat
at the buttons of the machine quite feverishly. The image of
his brightly bedecked charro twitching before the animated
screen caught my attention. Then a sliding window just
behind the twitching mariachi caught my attention. Then a
faded placard above that sliding window caught my attention.
The placard read "Hotel Palácios." I sighed. I approached
the sliding window. I edged around the excited mariachi. I
paid at the window. The clerk directed me along the dark
corridor of video games. The end of the corridor opened onto
an awkwardly shaped courtyard. In that courtyard plays the
Ranchero band. Ten or so rooms encircle the courtyard. My
room is a floor above the Ranchero party. The novelty of my
journey to this room energized me enough to scribble these
words. But still I feel like I'm about to collapse.

Tijuana is an expensive city compared to Mexico's
others. Taxi fare from the bus station to Revolución was
three times what I expected. I hopped a local bus to the
border crossing instead. From there I would take a taxi to
Revolución, I schemed. But even from the border crossing it
was too expensive. I told the taxista I had just toured
Mexico. I told him I would not pay so much for a ride so
short. He cut his fare thirty percent. Still it was too
much. He told me, "The area is dangerous." Still I had to
refuse. I told him, "I think I will walk." The taxista shook
his head. The taxista whistled warningly. But once my
intent became clear he gave me the "muy amable" gesture with
his hand. He wished me well. I thanked him. I felt no fear
treading to Revolución. Too tired to feel fear, I was, too
elated. I came upon the many clubs with their moods of the
carnal. I came upon the many hookers with their erotic
hissings. I found my room.

Just ten minutes by foot from this drink-ringed
nightstand lies the border crossing from Tijuana to San
Ysidro, Calilfornia. There a red trolley hums that will
shuttle me tomorrow to downtown San Diego. From there it is
an easy bus ride to the beach. I'm not sure what day it is.
I will have to look at yesterday's scribblings to date these
scribblings. My walls vibrate with cantina bass. I will
sleep now. This bed is deliciously soft.